My Promise
by mrsjamesspotter
Summary: James Potter,the star chaser of the team he has formed with his mates, is convinced that Aisling is the love of his life. Unfortunately for James, love at first sight doesn't seem to strike the fierce twentyfive year old in quite the same way. Yeah, thats one teeny tiny problem-She's older. Now what will his highly traditional family say? (Prequel to All my love) (second in series)
1. Chapter 1

With a pillow-muffled groan she reached an arm out and slapped at the top of her alarm clock. It took only two strokes to locate the snooze button and the machine fell blissfully silent. She could only hope that this was the first snooze of the morning because really, her habit was out of control.

Cracking one eye she moved her face closer to the alarm clock, stopping when the numbers became clear. It did not look good. In fact, it looked awful. Her face once again buried into a pillow, she forced herself to reckon with the fact that she'd been unconsciously snoozing for more than an hour. She absolutely _had_ to get up. There wasn't enough time to snooze again—not even once more.

As she pressed away from the bed, push up style, the mattress gave way and her wand poked her in the face. She'd forgotten it was there. Forgotten she'd been up way past her bedtime going through magazines and whatnot with the help of a wand light, researching her newest clients.

'_No wonder I snoozed for an hour without even realizing it_,' she thought to herself, fighting the early morning haze.

She was getting too old to stay awake past midnight and still get up before six am the next morning. This fact was rather painful to admit, but it was true all the same: she was getting older, and at no uncertain clip. Time was literally racing past faster than she could keep up. She hesitated to acknowledge that it was July of 2022. She was pretty sure when she'd gone to sleep the night before it had been May 2015.

The flat was still quiet as she traipsed to the bathroom groggily, eyes heavy and more than a little allergy encrusted from the hours she'd spent lazing around in the park the day previous. Her roommate Meg had not yet awoken, which was relief. Meg knew her well, to be sure, but in the morning it simply did not matter if Meg knew how to deal with her moods. She was not human before nine am, and she knew it. Morning was not her finest time of day, to say the least. She did not like to be around people before nine am because inevitably, she was rather unkind to them. Inevitably that ruined her day before it even had a chance to begin.

Long hair still up in a bun, fringes pinned back from her face, she began her modified morning routine. Modified, because this was a much earlier morning that she was used to. Her early meeting was located across town and about thirty blocks south of her flat and she'd need plenty of time to get there. Everything would've been so much better if she could apparate without vomiting. Stupid motion sickness

Wash, moisturize, and dry while balancing The Daily Prophet on a knee. Then back to the bathroom for makeup and hair.

Thankfully, paranoia about oversleeping had led her to leave an outfit out for herself the night before, streamlining the process of selecting her look for the day. She always had a _look_, from her clothes to her makeup, shoes and accessories, everything coordinated. Everything. There was always a concept. It was a control thing. Not a strand of hair was to be out of place. Not an accessory was lightly chosen. She always wanted to be put together. Today, she would be put together as a sophisticated business woman who knew her place.

Smudging one last layer of charcoal liner around her eyes, she surveyed herself in the mirror as best she could. In the months since she'd moved, the most she'd seen of herself inside the new flat was from the breasts upward. Neither she nor Meg had found a full length mirror that they could justify purchasing…not when twenty dollars could buy a perfectly good cocktail or a quarter of a pair of shoes. A quick glance at her wizphone (owls creeped the hell out of her), warned her that whatever she looked like in that very moment would have to do. She was, as always, cutting it close on time.

With a flip she moved her side swept fringes out of her eyes. One last glance at the mirror confirmed that her normally pin-straight, vivid red hair was drying into messy waves—silently, she thanked her miracle-worker-cum-hairstylist, Alice—and her makeup was at least close to the look she'd been envisioning. It would all have to do. There was barely enough time to throw her wand, Wizphone and her sandals into her oversized purse/briefcase before she had to scamper out the door to meet the July morning of muggle London.

She paused for a moment in the record company lobby, trying to find a nook somewhere out of the way where she could cool off. Although the morning's low 70s temperatures weren't bad, the 93% humidity had been enough to push her over the edge of discomfort. She was simultaneously glad she'd thought to pack a thin stylish robe to cover her sweaty top, and depressed by the idea that she'd have to put on another layer of clothing.

'_Thank you Barrow family_,' she thought to herself as she tugged at the hemline of her shirt, shaking it violently back and forth to create some airflow. '_What a genetic blessing…sweat_.'

Taking another moment to gather herself, run her hands through her hair and slide on the robe, she took off across the lobby again. Her high-heeled sandals seemed to thunder across the stone floors as she gave her wand at the building security for checking and wove through the crowd to the elevator bank.

'_What an auspicious start to my morning_,' she thought, feeling damp and uncomfortable as she stared at her toes in the wonderfully silent elevator. '_This meeting is obviously going to be just _remarkable.'

Even in her own brain she was sarcastic, cynical. She could not turn it off. Could not even _think_ otherwise—especially not before nine am, especially not before coffee (tea was icky). Her meeting that morning, with one of the most upcoming quidditch teams, was going to be a big test. After subway delays and a sweaty cross-town, cross-Times-Square trek, she was not feeling terribly positive about her morning. Or about the potential outcome of her day. Apparating… now that would've made my life easier. Why do I even have a licence anyway?

Suddenly, she felt ill-prepared and under-practiced for the meeting. Her boss—and uncle—had trusted her to take this meeting. She'd given such an impassioned argument for why it was the perfect account for her, why it would be even better if she took the meeting with as few of the company's elder-statesmen as possible. And somehow, she'd sold him on it. Somehow, he'd agreed and sent her to run the show accompanied by only one other staff member for support. Now, she was doubting herself.

She came to a halt outside the conference room she knew she was meant to enter. Her co-worker, Marc, was standing outside waiting for her. With a smile and a deep breath, she nodded at Marc, who reached for the door handle.

'_Relax. They're a bunch of kids. You've been there before. You've got this in the bag._' She began to hype herself up. '_And remember, everyone is always faking it. Always._'

She reminded herself of this fact frequently. It was something she'd realized a few months into her first job out of university. Back then, she was constantly in fear of losing her job. Of making the one mistake that would be the last straw. She was convinced, every day, that she was about to be fired. That it would be her last day. Because 90% of the time she was speaking nonsense, making things up, pretending to be well-informed and well-prepared. Pretending she knew what she was doing.

And then, one day, it dawned on her. This was what everyone felt like. It wasn't just her. They were all faking it, from the Minister to the lowly minion next to her. They were all faking it 90% of the time. And they were all doing just fine. And she would do just fine, too. As long as no one ever saw the cracks beneath the surface.

She smoothed her hands over her hips, tossed her hair back out of her face, and stepped through the open door.

"Good morning, everyone," she said, smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

He inhaled sharply at the sight of her; this was not what he'd been expecting from the new marketing team. This was…stunning. This was 5'11 in heels, tight skirt, a clearly stylish robe (that did nothing to hide her short skirt), cascading red hair. This was way better. His morning was suddenly looking up.

Straightening in his seat, he kicked at the person closest to him beneath the table, this time coming into contact with Al (although Adam or maybe Fred would probably have been a bit more appropriate). Turning his head, he widened his eyes, brows following in an upward pattern, and cocked his head toward the new girl—err, woman. If he hadn't been at least a little bit afraid she might hear him, he would have said 'check her out!'

Al's response lacked enthusiasm. His eyebrows rose as well, but he simply shrugged before looking away.

'_Well, Al's loss, my gain,_' he thought to himself, assessing Adam's reaction to their new marketing team before looking back to the front of the room. '_Also lukewarm. Score._'

"Good morning, everyone," she said, smile spreading across her lips and lighting her eyes as she placed her bag down on a chair, rooting through its front pocket before looking up. "I'm Ash Barrow, and this is my colleague, Marc Bart."

Ash gestured to the older man beside her before coming around the table and shaking everyone's hand, dropping business cards before them as she went. He wanted to hold her hand longer the moment she placed it inside his, wanted to stare into her eyes longer the instant he caught them. She did not seem to notice, only smiled again and released her grasp, handing him a business card before moving on to Al.

_Aisling G. Barrow. Senior Account Manager._ Aisling? Hadn't she said Ash? Or was it like Albus being Al or Roxanne being Roxy?

Looking up, he was about to open his mouth and ask about her name when he noticed she'd already begun to speak. Thinking better of interrupting just yet, he sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and put on what he hoped was his sexiest smirk, one eyebrow raised.

Twenty minutes later, he was not listening to a word that was being said around him. Mostly Aisling had been doing the talking at first, presenting her concept for a new campaign to lead up to the next quidditch season. He'd almost been listening at that point, but even then it was primarily for the purpose of waiting for lulls in the conversation so he could interject with some smart or cute remark. He wasn't listening to learn anything, which was for sure. But then the question and answer period had begun and he'd actually stopped listening entirely. He was too busy coming up with an alternate plan of attack. Aisling had all but completely ignored his witty remarks for the entire meeting. Clearly, this plan—his usual—wasn't working. And frankly, he wasn't sure what else to do, because his usual attack _always _worked. So instead of listening, he stared her down as he brainstormed his next steps.

This was completely new for him. And not just in an 'I usually go for blondes, but she's a redhead' sort of way. No, lately, girls had been falling all over him. It took exactly zero effort to get their attention, for them to be putty in his hands. And even if the occasional girl took a few seconds to crack, he always knew what to do, always got to them in a matter of moments, inside a few sentences. She was not taking the bait. If playful remarks and flirtatious smiles and flattery were getting him nowhere…well, then, what _would_ get him somewhere? His arsenal was fairly empty otherwise.

Although, if he were honest, she wasn't his usual type either. She was obviously older than him, perhaps considerably. And she was aggressive and confident and commanded attention in an almost intimidating way. She was not looking to him for approval.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was about her that attracted him. She was certainly stunning, but in his line of work he met stunning women all the time. Beautiful girls too. So it wasn't just her looks. He considered for a moment that it was because Aisling so obviously believed she was out of his league. He _did_ always want the things he could not have. But then, he didn't believe that was it either. Didn't believe that _could_ be it. There had to be more. This was something different than he had ever felt before. He felt as though he genuinely needed to get her attention. Needed her to laugh at his jokes and cast her smile in his direction. It was a compulsion. It felt beyond his control.

He found himself momentarily distracted from his plotting when Aisling did actually laugh at something. He didn't hear the joke, if there had been one, and he did not laugh. But the sound of her laughter, loud and unchecked, was striking.

His breath caught in his throat when her eyes were suddenly on him. His stomach felt like it had dropped straight to the floor. Her curious gaze was intoxicating, her eyes a shade of almost blue, almost green that he was sure he'd never seen before in nature. And then, before he could even catch his breath—let alone a thought—she looked away, quizzical expression still on her face.

Al elbowed him.

"What?" His head snapped around to his brother.

"Didn't you hear—ugh, never mind." Al shook his head and looked back to the front of the room.

He suddenly regretted the fact that he hadn't been listening, feeling as though he must have missed out on something good. She'd developed a decent rapport with his manager, and the coach was eating out of her palm. Whatever she'd said or suggested during the course of that meeting, they'd bought it: hook, line and sinker. And he had no idea what it was, or what he was in for.

Regret notwithstanding, once again, he wasn't listening. Instead he found himself casting about for anything that could have filtered into his brain while he'd been too busy trying to hit on her to listen to her. Trying to figure out what he had missed. Moments later, the meeting seemed to be coming to a close around him: people were flipping their notepads shut and Aisling was packing her belongings back into her bag. He noticed then that her nails were cherry red. A detail that had managed to escape him as he'd focused on her eyes and the dip of her waist beneath her fitted robe and the way her hair seemed to move in the light, even when she was still.

He felt the words leave his mouth before he considered them, "Will we see you again? Because, if not—"

She cut him off, "We have another meeting in a few weeks," her voice was firm and frustratingly emotionless. He could not get her to react the way he wanted. "It was very nice meeting you all," she said, moving towards the other team members for a handshake, "I look forward to working with you guys.

Aisling shook Al's hands before reaching him. He felt a rush of anticipation as he watched her hand move toward his. His body felt bottomless once again as they made contact, like his insides were plummeting. He held on for dear life.

"Have a great afternoon," she said, actually yanking her hand back. He hadn't realized how tightly he was grasping her palm or that he'd stop shaking it long ago.

She turned to leave and for a moment, he could do nothing but watch, dumbfounded. He knew instantly that he needed to see her again. Needed to feel that rush of blood through his veins, that twisting of his insides at her nearness. She did not look back as she followed her co-worker out of the conference room. And though he did not know what to do, or how to get to her, he could not let her leave.

Reaching into his bag he grabbed hold of a promotional copy of the teams poster (bearing the signature of all the players) and ran after her without a word.


	3. Chapter 3

She felt relieved to finally be out of the conference room. She desperately wanted to shut down, to turn off, to go back to herself. Meetings like that were exhausting; she had to be on all the time. Had to be together and capable and organized and all-knowing. She had to have all the answers, and worse, she had to know the questions before they were asked. It made her head spin. She had never once felt a rush after a successful pitch; she always just wanted a nap.

"Hey, Aisling, do you want to grab lunch to celebrate?" Marc asked as she fell into step with him.

"I don't know, Marc, I'm feeling really drained right now," she began. Marc could be…intense, to say the very least. Needy, was perhaps a better word to describe him. She was not in the mood to entertain anyone.

"Come on, Ash, it's on me. We'll get a big bottle of wine," he prodded. She sighed.

"All right, fine. But, I get to pick the wine this time, and it's going to be _expensive_," she finished in a sing-song voice and laughed, "I'm going to let the sommelier talk me into something outrageous!"

Lately, her co-workers had taken to banishing her from the table when it was time to order the wine. There was a running joke in the company that she must have the word 'sucker' tattooed on her forehead because any time they entered a restaurant, sommeliers always zeroed in on her immediately. They never spoke to anyone else when she was at the table, as though they intrinsically knew she could be talked into trying anything. Her Uncle Daniel and Marc teased her mercilessly about it, which she supposed wasn't so bad, considering they always paid for the wine anyway.

She liked to tell herself it was just that the sommeliers knew, on sight, that she had good taste. Although truthfully, she suspected it was because they could tell she went weak in the knees for an attractive man who could speak intelligently about wine. Probably because she looked at them all dreamy-eyed as they approached. She was powerless to say no. It had nothing to do with being a sucker. It had everything to do with being a smart, single female with a taste for fine wine and handsome nerds. She wasn't a Ravenclaw for no reason.

Rolling her head slowly from side to side, which elicited a dull cracking in her neck, she could feel the tension beginning to recede from her body. She continued laughing along with Marc. Then, only yards from the elevator bank, just as she was beginning to think she could relax, she felt a warm hand on her bare forearm. When the owner of that hand began to speak, she heard a voice she'd had more than enough of that morning. She was barely able to swallow the urge to curse as she turned to face him, the muscles in her shoulders drawing tight.

"Aisling," he said, "wait. Before you leave, I thought I would give you one of these. In case, you know, you didn't have one…So you can start your own collection."

James threw her what she guessed was his best smug, 'aren't-I-charming' smile.

"I was a Puddlemere fan the first time, thanks," she said and immediately regretted it.

The look on his face was crestfallen. Worse, even, than she would have expected. She'd meant it in a mostly playful way (mostly) but her tone of voice had failed her again. This happened every once in a while: the joke came out drier than she intended, too biting, too real. Sometimes the joke betrayed her. This was one of those times. On the inside, some part of her clearly did believe what she'd said.

In her own defence, James had been irritating her all morning. He'd spent her entire meeting joking around, a smart comment ready for every word she said, constantly trying to distract her from her work. She had enough of a challenge commanding people's respect in a business environment on her own. She didn't need help from some snarky quidditch star. Her age and exuberance too often allowed people to believe her to be naïve and inexperienced. She was neither of these things.

James's constant banter, his irritating winks and smiles, the wiggling eyebrows…they all indicated that he was not taking her seriously. The last thing she needed was for that attitude to spread to the rest of the team, or their staff, or the marketing company.

"Ouch," he said, softly, now looking away from her, his eyes desperately casting about for something else to focus on. She watched as the hand holding out the poster dropped to his side.

"Sorry, that was rough," she apologized, but did not want to engage him in any further conversation. Marc was getting away from her. "I, uh…gotta go, lunch meeting." She turned unceremoniously on her heel and did not look back.

"No you did not," Meg stared at her incredulously, mouth open, as she dug through the cupboard for a veggie dog.

"Yes. I did," she said, tossing the dogs on the skillet and taking a swig of her cider.

"What did he do?" Meg asked, twisting around completely and repositioning on the couch to face her in the kitchen.

"He looked at me like I'd just avada'd his puppy." She dropped her forehead into her free hand, hip propped against the granite countertop.

"Are you going to tell Uncle Danny?"

"Oh merlin no," she looked back up at Meg, "no, that'd be inviting disaster. I mean, I can always hope that James keeps the whole thing to himself and no one is the wiser, right? If he finds out, Daniel will make me apologize…you know how he is about 'treating every mistake like it's nuclear.'" She made quote marks in the air.

In addition to being roommates (at Hogwarts and at present), she and Meg were actually first cousins. Her boss Daniel was the youngest of five uncles (and one aunt) on their fathers' side of the family.

"And if James doesn't keep it to himself?"

"Then I treat the situation like it's nuclear."

"God, that is so priceless. I really wish I could have witnessed that…" Meg shook her head, a huge smile on her lips.

She and Meg had spent hours the evening previous amusing themselves with research on the team under the guise of preparing for her meeting. They were not impressed. Or at least, not as impressed as James would have hoped. To be frank, she knew Meg had not been impressed at all. Meg spent most of the night rolling her eyes.

She was a slightly different story, however. In all honesty, she had purchased the new Witch Weekly and Quidalicious! Both of which bore the faces of the team on its cover page, all dimples and winks and smirks in their shirtless glory. She now knew the names of all the members and what position they played. Hell she even knew what kind of sandwiches Adam Finnigan liked, though she would never admit that aloud to anyone.

But her loyalties lie elsewhere. She had not been lying to James that morning. She had been (and still was) a Puddlemere fan. A big one. Almost as big as they got, really. Being a Puddlemere fan was, in fact, what she believed most qualified her to run the marketing team for this campaign (and in her opinion, well beyond this campaign). She knew their target market. Hell, she had _been_ their target market once. And she also knew what didn't work, why Puddlemere was unable to maintain the popular success that should have been theirs. She could use that. She could sell games with that experience and she knew it. Her feelings about the team itself had nothing to do with that. This was about business, not affection.


End file.
